"No doubt you think it adds to your intellect to pretend independence of
all emotion. But, do you know, I think feeling, instead of being a
weakness, is often more clever than wisdom? At any rate, what you are
doing now is proof sufficient that you feel, and perhaps more strongly than
many."

He partly turned on the music-chair, and regarded her questioningly, never,
however, lifting his hands from the keys as he played a softly passionate
minor strain.

"What am I doing?" he asked.

"Making love to the piano."

"It does not hurt the piano, does it?"

"No; but never say you do not feel when you play like that."

"Is not that rather peremptory? Who taught you to read characters?"

"You."

"I? What a poor teacher I was to allow you to show such bungling work!
Will you sing?"

"No, I shall read; I have had quite enough of myself and of you for one
night."

"Alas, poor me!" he retorted mockingly, and seeming to accompany his words
with his music; "I am sorry for you, my child, that your emotions are so